Fever of Deceit
by springandbysummerfall
Summary: Vegeta is the Dark Prince, grappling for his throne against Saiyan and clandestine, outside forces. Bulma is a destitute, overlooked engineer indentured on Vegetasei. In a bid for her freedom, Bulma ends up snared in a contract with the Prince. As the tension thickens on Vegetasei, can they overcome their differences to stop an insidious threat to their respective worlds?
1. Chapter 1

A shadow among shadows, a slight figure hesitated. Marble cool against her back as she straightened against the wall, she stopped to glance at her small radar. Detecting no ki's headed her way, she tucked the radar back into the folds of her black hooded jumpsuit and made a beeline down the hall. Two intersections north, four doors to the left, and out the Palace to race through the darkened gardens towards the Science Wing. There, she would lean against the outside alabaster and strip off her jumpsuit, folding it into her arms inconspicuously to walk the deserted halls back to her small, austere apartment in the basement, which Vegetasei's scientists begrudgingly called "home"...Home free. She would fall upon Gohan's sleeping form on the rough plaid couch in the living room, shaking him awake and laughing, and they would embrace tightly while she told him with real, honest to goodness conviction, "You're going home. You're going home." Everything hinged on the humble storage device nestled in her waistband.

She had met no resistance while stealing the data from the Military Wing, whose security was shockingly laughable. And laugh she would. She would break down into wild, desperate, sobbing laughter on Gohan's shoulder, because she was no spy, no secret agent. She was a peon, a measly lab aid, and here she had broken into the Saiyan Empire's system and hacked all their martial project data. Her heart, still hammering wildly, assured her she was still alive, a feat made possible solely because she had been lucky enough to survive to this day...the day her own science triumphed over the draconian technology ravaged from other worlds and lauded by the Saiyans. Her hand touched her chest softly, willing her heart to slow. Freedom was right in front of her, she could almost reach out and touch it. It was palpable, it was heady. Just two more intersections to pass, four doors down, and a left out into the courtyard, where she could slip past the night blooming jasmine and snoring sentries with ease. If there was one thing living at the heart of the Empire taught her, it was that the Empire was becoming derelict, rotting from the inside in a greedy, cocksure stupor. The Saiyans had once been known for their preemptive strength; now, it was common knowledge, at least on-world, that their pride was an empty gesture. The Empire had grown lax-which was exactly what she was banking on.

She crept down the hall mutely, palms grazing the walls for comfort and second sight. Saiyans had much better eyesight in the dark than Earthlings, but her radar assured her that there was no one around she didn't expect. She was just through the last intersection, with only two more recessed doorways to pass. She could begin to smell the salty air of the wide open world that the Palace's thick granite walls barred against. Only dust, sand, and salt comprised her knowledge of the outside world on Vegetasei. She had lived on the planet for years and could count the times she had breathed in fresh air on one hand. "Fresh" was relative, however, considering Vegetasei's heat cooked any moisture right out of the air, transforming the planet's breathable air into a stale afterthought. She expected to be pretty exasperated when she returned to her living quarters and emptied twin piles of sand out of her shoes, scrubbed away the dusty film that coated her skin, and stuffed the rough toilet paper up her nose to counter her nose bleed. The outside world may have held all the newness of an adventure, but it owned none of the beauty or comforts of her home world.

The Science Wing was her world now. Life began there, every day at 0500, and ended there as she squeezed her eyes shut against the pitch of a lights out curfew at 2100 each night. Vegetasei was all salt flats, an ancient, red giant hovering protectively near, and blearily long work hours, pushing someone else's small science. Although she was among other exiles, remnants and relics of worlds that had been purged like her own and men and women of intellect who should have rightfully been a support structure when she had been shepherded to Vegetasei those eight years ago, friendship remained an Earth novelty, a memory buried in that distant, sweet spot in her mind, of which she rarely had the courage to step through the threshold anymore. Members of the Science Wing were contractually obligated to avoid rapport with their peers, lest the paranoid Empire's secrets trickle out. Here on Vegetasei, she had only the drop tile ceiling, the throaty hum of her small fridge, and blinding fluorescent bulbs to keep her company. For the most part on Vegetasei, every day was the same-excepting the pervading, silent threat of disappearing in the night. Scientists who wronged an Elite, whether or not their data was correct, whether or not they knew about their data's sponsor, were routinely pulled from their beds for midnight executions. The Elites gripped the Science Wing with an iron fist. Both facts made this excursion all the more sickeningly thrilling.

Where would she go once First Strike granted her freedom? Bulma's breath caught with anticipation as she made her way down the hall. Would there be snow, a crisp, hushed blanket of it? A crackling fireplace a sentinel against long winters? Maybe the placating freedom offered up by the ocean? Maybe she would get a cottage in the thick of the mountains where she would wake up late each morning, reveling in the renewed ownership of her body as she stretched languidly, her back arching in the big, pillowy bed which she would childishly, reluctantly roll out of. She'd mosey across the house to make a pot of strong tea. The coffee in the Science Wing was weakly brewed and sour, and she wouldn't miss it. Maybe she would sit outside on the deck aimlessly, maybe read a book? She hadn't seen one in eight years. She'd hold the book to her face and flip through the pages, inhaling the brisk smell of cut paper. No computers in sight. She'd paint the living room a shocking green, the bedroom a dreamy blue. The teacups she savored her tea from, a deep red. She'd cook her own meals. She'd go into town for groceries, and the grocer would wave and call good morning, calling her name, not her number, _#42019_, as was her identifier on Vegetasei. She would never have to look at another lab or lab coat again, or the black hospital slippers they issued as part of her Sleep Uniform that she now snuck throughout the Palace in. Instead, she would go barefoot everywhere. Maybe she would have a closet full of dresses when she settled down, her wardrobe a performance of texture and pattern. And heels? She shied away then, cautious and unfamiliar with the intoxicating nature of daydreaming. Her wardrobe was issued on Vegetasei. Like all scientists, the gray scrubs, white lab coat, and black oxfords were her standard, every day apparel. To sleep in, they were issued two pairs of black polyester pajamas and slippers. She owned four pairs of high waisted beige briefs, four beige underwires, and four pairs of pilled, white polyester socks. Could she-would she-wear heels? Her heart skipped a beat. She had spent years rolling her eyes at her mother's love of fashion and homemaking, and here she was, day dreaming homemade biscuits drenched in honey and heels. Pretty things hadn't been what kept her alive all these years, though. It had been the keen intellect and curiosity she had inherited from her father. She frowned resolutely, the last landmark in her line of sight. She would live to preserve her mother's memory, and she wouldn't die wasting her father's talents on a murdering Empire.

There the gardens lay, a sprawl of night blooming blossoms and several desert rose hybrids. A wall of labyrinthine hedges shielded any visitors of the garden from curious eyes in the Palace, a murmuring fountain poised in the center of them beneath a ribbon of stars. For just a moment, she admitted to some beauty on the world that held her hostage. She took a moment for a small, solemn smile. She could see the Science Wing just a ways further, a domed building with a few winking lights. With a tired sigh, she stepped onto the shadowed garden path.

Only to be shoved up against the outside Palace wall. It knocked the air out of her as she instinctually gripped the wrists which held her.

"What are you doing sneaking around the Royal Palace in the middle of the night?" A roughened, deep voice crooned. Her blood ran cold. Not only did he know she didn't belong, but he sounded like he'd enjoy playing the cat to her mouse. She wasn't prepared to be intercepted or questioned...more like just slain. She had to think fast.

"Getting a breath of fresh air, sir," she squeaked, trying to sound convincing.

She could only see his outline in the darkness, the set of his wide, round soldiers uncompromising, cape pins glinting against them. Like most Saiyans, he had wild, thick hair, which crested upward like a flame. The wild sweep of his hair was misleading, though. Unlike most Saiyans, this one only stood a few inches taller than her, rather than towering above her.

She saw a cruel, hard smirk tug at his lips and knew she wasn't fooling him.

"Don't be foolish, little human. I've been watching you prowl around my Palace, and I demand," he encouraged silkily, "to know why."

To her horror, she giggled nervously. The Saiyans cruel smirk drooped into a hard frown. Just as he began to seem to question her sanity, hundreds of volts of electricity erupted from a thong around her hand as it closed around his wrist. The shock of it gripped him, and he seized beneath it, loosing his grip on the collar of her shirt.

She ran.

Sprinting through the garden, hurdling over rare orchids and bluebells, she raced towards the Science Wing. She had calibrated the stunner to take down a full sized Saiyan, she had no reservations in using it, and she didn't anticipate to be intercepted by him again. But every cell in her body was screaming at her to _run_, to preserve the dream that for just a moment flickered with uncertainty when that soldier wrapped his fists around her shirt.

Just as she sailed over the last desert scrub, a hand fisted in the back of her shirt and the dream flickered in front of her and extinguished completely. She was flung into the air, soaring upward as her limbs waved wildly as she shrieked.

"I don't appreciate being played a fool," she heard him growl beneath her as he reached out and grabbed for her ankle, preventing her from smashing into the ground but jerking her to a halt in the air to sway upside down beneath him. She prayed frantically that her radar and the storage device remained snugly in her waistband.

"Now, are we going to get down to business, or am I just going to have to cut this fun short and incinerate you before you even hit the ground?"

"Fun?!" She wailed. "Fun for you, maybe!"

He chuckled humorlessly above her. "I'm waiting."

If she gave up her position, she was dead, and the dream was dead with her. If she refused to play to his fiddle, she was dead, and the dream dead, too. She fought back a cry of frustration. She was so close, until this prick showed up!

First Strike was her only salvation. If she threw them under the bus, she may lose her way out. There had to be some middle ground she could take, some compromise which didn't completely bankrupt her. Plus, she was dealing with a low level guard here. Saiyan brawn wasn't particularly known for it's reasoning abilities. Although he held her upside down, she may still have the upper hand.

"Alright, I'll spill! Just please put me down!" She hollered, trying to affect an air of contriteness.

Slowly, she was lowered to the ground, until her hands hit the gravel and he released her ankle. She let out a little "ooph" of air and pushed herself back to her feet, readjusting her head covering and patting her waist band. She relaxed an inch. The drive and the radar were still there in one piece.

The man cleared his throat. She got the feeling he wasn't to be dicked around, if his impressive posturing indicated anything. He stood, arms crossed, legs braced, scowling, the gold tips of his pristine white boots glinting in the starlight. She couldn't make out any more of his uniform. Not an average guard, then. She gulped. He had kind of a beautiful face, actually. The sharp angles of his profile were fitting with his barbed humor. His full lips were drawn into a no nonsense line as he tapped his bicep. An Elite guard, then? Someone used to getting what he wants. Why was he so interested in her, then? She was going to have to be very careful if she wanted to keep her head.

"I was taking something that wasn't mine." She reached into her waistband and palmed the radar, handing it over to him. He glanced at it down his nose but didn't touch it. She moved slowly and deliberately then, understanding she was playing with fire. "It's a ki radar. It locates and tracks ki's."

"But you didn't pick up on mine?"

She scowled, barely admitting with any grace, "No."

That seemed to please him. "You didn't pick up on mine for the same reason you didn't shock me to death." He flashed her a dazzling smile before quickly smothering it with malice. "Your...weapon..isn't calibrated for someone of my power level. Most guards have a power level I superseded while I was still in the womb. And that was who you were expecting, am I right?" A smug, devilish expression grew on his face.

She crossed her arms and huffed.

"I can also suppress my power level," he spun darkly, and her heart gave a little thump. "So let's be clear. If you think you are dealing with the average Saiyan," he stepped toward her, peering at her with an eyebrow raised disaffectedly, "you have miscalculated."

"Well, I was expecting that any Saiyan I crossed paths with would be nearly exploding with overconfidence, and it seems I was proven right," she snapped reproachfully before she could think twice. Her eyes widened as she realized her error. Saiyans didn't tolerate name calling, no matter their rank.

His eyes flashed as his leg swept her feet out from under her. She fell on to her back painfully and winced as his hand closed around his throat.

"If you like to play," his canines glinted fiercely, "I can oblige."

"Hit a nerve, did I?" She croaked against his grip. Now wildly in fear of her life, words spewed haphazardly out of her mouth. Inside, she was screaming at herself for not properly cowering. She had years of experience in meekness, how was it at the one time it truly mattered, she had to be a wise ass?

"Who do you work for?" He growled, squeezing her throat to emphasize he expected an honest answer.

What did she have to live for now? There was no way she was getting out of this alive. She fell to pieces inside. She was as good as dead. The only thing that mattered was letting this Saiyan and this spiral of stars above her know just how humiliated she had been, how she despised all eight grueling years on this sanctified planet.

"First Strike," she grit. "So there, how do you like them apples!"

His initial consternation was replaced by flabbergasted scorn. "What? Are you daft, woman?"

He was so sincere that it took her a moment to realize he was waiting for a reply. "You don't believe me?"

A frown creased his features again, drawing his eyebrows together, not unbecomingly. "You're an informant, than?"

She nodded against the more relaxed pressure at her throat.

"For First Strike."

Again, she nodded, puzzled.

"And they sent you here to collect that?" He jerked his head toward the radar in her hand she had forgone. He seemed to be buying it, despite the imposing tilt of his brows.

"Why? Of what use is that to a group of intergalactic guerillas?" He nearly spat the last bit out.

"It's highly advanced technology. Don't be fooled by its simple function. If the enemy knows where your forces are, how can you expect to flank them?" She half bluffed. She didn't know the first thing about martial arts, but she had still managed to evade all the Palace guards with her device.

But to her panic, his consideration drew upwards into a roguish smirk. "A First Strike spy, then. Just what I needed."

"What?" Did she hear right?

If you are who you say you are, then I need you to play a game of duplicity for me. I need to know all First Strike's reports of goings on in Saiyan affairs. Anything Saiyan politics, especially concerning Royals and Upper Elites, I need to be informed of. It goes without saying that I will spare your life tonight for this. Do we have a deal?"

"What? That's preposterous! First of all, I'm not 007! I don't report to anyone willing to tell me anything. i did what they wanted me to do and now I'm outta here. Second, how do I know you'll keep your end of the bargain?" The thought of making a deal with a Saiyan made her skin crawl. She wasn't even sure she could hold up her end of the bargain. First Strike had briefed her on nothing but what was absolutely imperative to claim the Saiyan's martial data. It was a highly dangerous mission, and the fact that they had sent some half baked scientist to complete it spoke volumes for their value of her life. But when she had been notified of an offer from First Strike, a loosely based intergalactic Resistance group notoriously and actively opposed to both the Cold and Saiyan Empires, with a job to gather some information that could buy her absolute freedom, how could she refuse? The only other option was to sit and wait for her inevitable death at the hands of some snubbed Elite, Elites who regularly paid the scientists to contrive and falsify numbers that would advance their own politicking. Unfortunately, the scientists worked in the dark, deemed less than third class, off world garbage whose only use was to unravel the technology the Saiyans couldn't figure out themselves. There was no room for advancement, and no window of opportunity headed her way. She had taken probably the only chance she'd ever get to get off planet. The fact that she had made it this far was astounding.

"For the same reason you will keep yours. You refuse at the peril of your life," he warned. "Not that I care whether you take one more measly breath or one hundred more. But I don't go against my word. You have my promise."

Her eyes flicked over his expression, scanning for cracks in his countenance, but he seemed serious. She sighed and knocked her head against the gravel in exasperation.

"Okay, yeah, sure. We have a deal."

She was pulled suddenly to her feet, wobbling to regain her balance while he stood, simply observing her.

"Little woman," he crooned, and there was no mistaking his deadly intent. "I will hold my end of the bargain, if you hold yours. Cross me," his hand suddenly glowed, a blue as bright and cutting as the flame of a torch, and he twirled the ball of ki between his fingers thoughtfully. "Cross me, and your death will be the least of your concerns." The smirk he gave her was absolutely feral.

She gulped. "Where would you like to meet to trade information?"

"The gardens are fine," he remarked flatly, gesturing over his shoulder. "Every fifth day. I will expect you out here at this time. And I will expect," he glanced at her radar with apprehensive amusement, "you'll have no problems getting here?"

"I foresee no problems," she agreed, grudgingly.

"Good. Until then," he called, and then jetted into the sky, his cape whipping behind him.

In the soft light of the stars, she saw the flash of the Royal House insignia on the breast of his armor as he swept upward.

She stifled a gasp.

The man wasn't a guard. He was a Royal.

There was no way she could double cross him now.

She sulked the rest of the way back to the Science Wing after sweeping the area one final time for ki's. She didn't worry about guards once she reentered the Wing. The doors inside the Wing were all locked at curfew, effectively shutting everyone inside their living space. What they hadn't counted on was her technical prowess. She was surrounded by geneticists, physicists, entomologists...what no one knew about her was that she wasn't simply any scientist.

She was an engineering genius.

She uncovered the key pad outside the door in the dank hall and overrode the command. Her door wheezed open, sliding into the wall. She stepped into the darkness, and the door swept shut behind her, closing her in.

A lamp clicked on. Although they cut the power at curfew, she had rigged her electronics to her own power source from pieces pilfered here and there from the labs. She was in no danger of being caught; her apartment boasted no windows, and the door was air tight.

Huddled on the couch in a ragged blanket sat Gohan, blinking against the light, although his raven black hair was long enough now to hang loosely in his eyes.

"Miss Bulma?"

She smiled gently and sat next to him, brushing the hair out of his eyes and then held his hand. Rubbing away sleep with his other hand, he looked up at her in anticipation, clutching her. "Did you do it?" He whispered.

Helplessly, Bulma broke out into a grin, which she followed with a curt nod. She pulled the drive from her waistband and held it out to him triumphantly. His eyes widened and his mouth parted in wonder.

Bulma then sighed, her hand falling into her lap. As a second thought, she put the drive in end table's drawer and began unwinding the mask from her head.

"I did it, although I got more than I bargained for." She threw the covering onto the table and again sighed. "I made a deal with the devil."

Gohan's big dark eyes raked her face in confusion. He was so mature for his age.

"I was cornered by a Royal, who gave me the option of either biting the dust or informing for him."

"On First Strike?" Gohan gasped.

She shook her head. "That's what's so curious about it. He wasn't interested in First Strike's goings on aside from their usefulness as espionage against other nobles. Royals and Upper Elites, _specifically_. It's baffling."

"And you agreed," Gohan reiterated, needing her confirmation to accept this new turn of events that could have them spiraling into doom at any minute.

"Yes," she stated calmly, although she felt anything but. "He's not aware I'm a transplant, that I work in the labs. He assumed I was a spy, bade me to gather information on Saiyans for him, and blasted off."

"And you're going to?" He cast her a doubtful look.

She frowned, staring down at the ground in consternation. "I intend to. I have no choice! I'm lucky I escaped with my head, let alone some privacy!" She groaned, planting her face in her hand. "I need to call your mother."

Gohan squeezed her hand, and then nodded, gently extracting his hand from her nervous grip. "I'll go get the receiver ready." She nodded and peered out from between the gaps in her fingers. She heard rustle and clatter as Gohan uncovered and set up the receiver as she stared absently into her small, open kitchen.

Gohan had come to live with her just over a year ago. He was the only child of her childhood best friend. His quiescence, his straight, fine hair and his grave studiousness, however, came directly from his mother. Bulma had balked when ChiChi asked her to take him on as a measure of protection. Here? Are you serious?! It turned out to be a wise gamble. Bulma got a lab aid out of it, and she also got her first company in seven years. Although Gohan was only ten, he, like her, had grown up these last eight years in dire straights. He was just two when Earth was purged. Bulma had been swept away by Saiyans ordered to gobble up anyone of any technical skill. Goku and ChiChi, however, had invoked the hand of God. Kami had seen what was to occur and spirited the little family away, away from their Mt. Paozu tranquility, never to return again. Since then, the Gods had used Goku as a tool, refining him in order to wield him as a sharply honed blade against galactic tyrants. The Colds and the Saiyans were spreading a taint, a creeping blackness across the complex beauty of the universe, and it was Goku's lot in life, they were all told, to halt their advancement. Once Goku had finished his training with Kaio Sama, the other Kai's had big plans for him-in territory his son couldn't safely follow. To be fair, ChiChi didn't have many places to send him. Bulma just happened to be the only known survivor, besides the Son family. ChiChi must have felt that, although it was hostile, Bulma's environment was at least stable.

Like a ghost, Bulma wandered into the only bedroom, watching Gohan as he set up her computer and used the appropriately secure channels to contact his mother. He was very sharp and attentive, and Bulma knew it pained ChiChi that she couldn't secure a safer, more relaxed future for him, one where his only worries were fitting in and maintaining good grades.

There was only enough room for a small bed and a small desk, and Bulma squeezed beside Gohan, giving the screen baleful looks. She should be calling ChiChi to gloat about her success. Instead she wasn't sure how well received the news would be that she sold herself, and Gohan by default, to a Royal's whims. As if the Elites weren't bad enough, the Royals were a particularly feared bunch. Ruthless, caustic, and self serving, the only thing that held them back, unlike the Elites, was their mood that day. Elites at least had to abide by Saiyan law. At the head of this oligarchy was the King, who was rumored to be so ill that he was completely removed from empire building, a responsibility left to his advisors. But beneath the King and above the advisors was the solitary heir to the Saiyan Empire. The Dark Prince. Bulma shuddered. The man was an enigma. The only thing that anyone knew of him was that they wanted to stay far, far away from him. He was the sins of the Empire in the flesh. He had single handedly taken over a whole quadrant with the flick of his wrist. He was bad news. And anyone even remotely related to the man, giving her orders, was enough to send Bulma's heart flatlining.

Just as she began sinking into a pit of despair, the familiar chew of static erupted from the receiver, and after a few tense minutes listening to beeps thrown into the void, the screen's gray static transformed into a recognizable face.

"Mom!"

"Cheech!"

ChiChi's worn, strong face smiled at them before settling into its characteristic glower. "I hope you have good news for me."

Gohan and Bulma glanced at each other before each taking a breath to speak. Gohan nodded at Bulma to start. Bulma clutched her knees, the lines from years of worry now clearly etched on her face.

"ChiChi, I have both good and bad news. I've got the device."

ChiChi's face lit up. Bulma's success meant her son would be finally out of harms way, residing with Bulma until Goku could end this blasted war and his tutelage under the Kai's. ChiChi's dour constitution could only be stretched so far. She was wearing thin. Her husband trained day after day with the best sensei's the universe had to offer, leaving her bereft of companionship, responsible only for caring for his basic needs and rarely spending time with him. She was increasingly isolated, and the icy walls she had erected once Earth had been destroyed weren't going to hold too much longer. But instead of thawing out, she was breaking up.

"That's great news! What's the catch?"

"I was caught," Bulma confessed wearily. "By a noble, of all people. A very...high ranking...noble."

ChiChi's eyes were as big as saucers. "You weren't killed?"

Bulma's face twisted into a wry smirk. "No. If you can believe it, he wants me to spy for him. And not on First Strike. On other Saiyans, through First Strike. That was the condition for my life."

ChiChi was uncharacteristically speechless. "Well. That is interesting. What about Gohan?"

Gohan fidgeted beside Bulma. Bulma shook her head. "He doesn't know about Gohan. Or that I live and work here. He should be safe. I disabled all surveillance before I left. There's no way I was followed or observed."

ChiChi nodded. "Don't give him any more information than you have to, Bulma. And stay low. I don't want either of you getting hurt when victory is so close in our grasp."

It took Bulma and Gohan to understand there was more to that comment than just an affirmation. As far as they knew, this cold war between the Saiyans and the Colds, increasingly agitated by First Strike, was a chronic element in their lives.

Gohan spoke first. "What do you mean, Mom?"

"Bulma may get her retreat first," ChiChi announced, "but we'll all have respite soon. Goku has Ascended."

Both Bulma and Gohan's jaws dropped.

"He's done it," she continued softly. "He's become a Super Saiyan."

"That's it. The war's at its end?" Bulma asked no one in disbelief.

ChiChi nodded gravely. "Word is that something big is about to go down between the Colds and the Saiyans that First Strike has its hands in. That's when Goku will make his move."

"Home," Gohan sighed, the exhaustion evident in the slope of his shoulders.

"Home," Bulma echoed, sagging against him.

Now she just had to dance around this Saiyan Royal until her salvation arrived.

* * *

Greetings! Some readers may know me from Reciprocity. This will be a short fic of only about five chapters. In the meantime, I am working on Reciprocity. Never fear!

Please review!


	2. Chapter 2

Bulma's eyes fluttered as she fought sleepiness, concentrating on soldering two wires together, one among a rainbowed tangle of them at her desk. The bright fluorescence bleached her face as it revealed everything in her workspace in its stark unimpressiveness. A white cubicle, tall enough to isolate her from her other co-workers. One boxy computer, set up to prohibit her from anything but her assignment and monitor her work. A few pens and pencils strewn on her desk, a small tool box and a micrometer pressed against the wall beside a gray file box.

Despite the monitoring, Bulma was moving brazenly forward on her secret project, certain her work would remain unimpeded. At least, until lunch time, which was fast approaching. Bulma hurried to finish her work, glancing once more at the blueprints for reassurance. What she was doing was against regulation and carried a severe penalty. But she couldn't get ChiChi's lined, worn face out of her minds eye, her firm but deflated reassurance that Goku had reached the legendary and that it was only time until the Kai's chose to make his appearance known. Goku was training relentlessly for a war to end all wars, and ChiChi was trying desperately to stay afloat, alone on the home front. The least she could do was give them the tools to make certain their arrival was unanticipated and as smooth as possible.

"Damn scouter," Bulma grumbled under her breath, blinking blearily. It was bad enough the end of her world for the last eight years was coming to an explosive end soon.

She would never admit it, especially around Gohan, but she harbored a creeping fear that her old friend wouldn't be strong enough to purge the Saiyan Empire of its Elites, opening up spots for intergalactic ambassadors to stabilize and reform the Empire. She hadn't seen Goku for years, not since they had been rounded up during the invasion. Her stalwart friend was amazingly versatile and strong, but he had never seen the heart of the Empire, where Bulma labored out her days. They may be overconfident, but the Saiyans were known historically for their superior strategizing and strength in the face of adversity. Goku may be of Saiyan blood -a fact that they were all surprised to learn- and he may have a Kai-backed passion for justice, but the Saiyans were ruthless and clever. They fought dirty, and their hearts were black. She hated the doubt that pervaded her, but Goku was going to have to be underhanded to outsmart the Elites when the time came for debts to be repaid.

And what of her life once she were free? The thought had been intoxicatingly powerful for years, and yet now that it seemed near, she was growing unbearably nervous. She didn't know if she could even really fully adjust to life outside the Saiyan Empire. Eight years of a military schedule and the threat of death like some game of Russian Roulette had sapped her of her youth and her hope. She wasn't even sure she had the stubborn perseverance that characterized her as a teenager, any more. She was starting to think she was doing all this work for Goku and the Kai's...and the Saiyan Elite who had confronted her in the garden...simply because she didn't what else to do with her life. She was a ghost of her former self, life's colors drained in this desert landscape so that the only reminder of who she was and had been was the color of her hair.

With a sigh, she tidied up the wiring of the new scouter and slipped it into her coat pocket before pulling a stack of paperwork toward her.

The Saiyan Elite...

She had received a brief, impersonal, and ambivalent message from her landlord this morning.

"I'm to forward a message onto you, number 42019," he had informed her curtly. "Your patron is requesting a meeting with you at 2200 at the place which you agreed to the partnership."

"Excuse me?" Bulma had asked. She had never been patronized, which she was entirely relieved about. Having a patron dictate one's work was asking for trouble. There was nothing desirable about having a power hungry, sociopathic politician spurring one to present biased results before hanging them out to dry.

"Your patron, 42019," he reiterated with annoyance. "He instructs you to be at your assigned meeting place at 2200 tonight. He also included this personal message."

He handed her a sealed missive carelessly and turned back to his computer. Bulma stared at the missive with bewilderment until she felt a wave of cold fear settle over her.

She drew the letter from its envelope slowly. A deep burgundy wax seal at its center, stamped with the three pronged Royal Saiyan insignia. With a mixture of horror and curiosity, she slowly ran her thumb over the wax seal, the indentation of the insignia smooth against the thick curve of her thumb. The thought of his fingers previously in the same spot overwhelmed her.

"42019."

His bark shocked her out of her stupor. Her head snapped up and she snapped to attention, standing and bowing quick and low. Her landlord gave her an irritated once over before turning back to his computer and ignoring her.

The Elite...the Royal Elite, rather...was calling on her to fulfill her promise tonight.

Bulma slid her thumb under the seal, and with only a little resistance, it cracked open, the heavy weight letter card yawning open reluctantly. A handsome script, so at odd with his rough edges.

'Tonight. 2200.'

The thought filled her with a sullen dread.

* * *

The Right Hand of Darkness swept down the hall, his scarlet cape billowing behind him, the only sound preceding him the firm slap of his gold toed boots echoing against marble. Royal guards stood at attention every few meters within dark recesses in the walls of the hall. Not that they were necessary. At least, not for him. He could incinerate them and any 'threat' to him with a blink of his eye. There was no one in this damned palace who could even hope to match him and his unprecedented strength, that was already becoming the stuff of legends.

The Prince of Saiyan's fine, aristocratic features furrowed, his upper lip curling in disgust. And here he was, having to parley to a bunch of aged plutocrats who wanted nothing more than to twist Royal Decree and tradition to advance the Empire's business and line their pockets. It was particularly un-Saiyan.

That kind of opportunism-before-nation had only flourished as the Prince had campaigned across the galaxies, 'negotiating' for new planets to add to the Empire and striking fear into the hearts of any who opposed-or rather, the hearts of those still living, those who heard told news of the rampant destruction that always visited with a spurned Saiyan Prince.

The stories spun about the Prince terrorizing and extinguishing races with the upwards curve of a smirk, and the daunting, coercive demeanor that followed around him like a cloak enlisted many to capitulate to his demands as soon as he stepped onto dry land, who figured living with a browbeating overlord was better than dying like a bug squished under a shoe. Should they refuse, well, then, the Saiyan Prince thought that was a noble enough way to die. That was Saiyan might. That was battle, fair and square. None of this scheming that had plagued the Elites and his father's advisors for the last half century he'd been away.

The Prince's eyes flicked to the side. In the West Wing, his father lay dying, without any indication that he was going to hand over the Empire to his son prematurely. He hadn't even been declared regent! A low growl escaped the Prince's throat. Not that he felt ready to inherit an Empire. But the Empire was going to seed around him, and those left in charge were only squeezing it dry. He knew those graspy bastards were just lying in wait like wolves for the next feast, whether the Saiyans delivered it or not. That's what he had to uncover; he had to prove that which was becoming more evident to him every day he had been back planet-side. Unfortunately, he wasn't very sluethy; he was much better at search-and-destroy. Rage simmered just below the surface, the ape in him itching for release. Here he had been sent on a fool's errand for the better half of his youth, while those scavenger's reaped his due.

And he couldn't just kill them. Oh, it would be so easy. A few ki bursts as his hand swept genteelly across the meeting table, bestowing upon them a gift which would only invoke their curdling screams, and his father's advisors and Upper Elites would be nothing, more minuscule than ash. It was what they had their hands in that would haunt him should he proceed in that direction. He just knew they held some leverage, some checkmate to move against him should he act as they expected the impulsive Prince of Darkness would. That the very men and women who were divinely appointed to protect their Saiyan heritage would plot against the heir-had, most likely, kept him away for so long-made him insanely, vengefully furious.

But, against all logic, he couldn't do it. He wanted to, oh harsala-izu he wanted to, but in a strange way, he didn't want to. He wanted more to outwit and outmaneuver them. He wanted to prove he was the master strategist and Saiyan. It was risky, but, well, he wasn't known for walking on the safe side.

That's where his little spy came in. After this waste and mockery of convening with the Elite Elders, he would just be biding his time until he could shake his spy down for information later tonight. Five days had passed since they first spoke, and hopefully he could soon be done with the little snoop, slay some traitors in good fun, and take his Empire back.

The royal guards held open the doors of the meeting room, staring stoically ahead with one fist over their hearts, and he strode into the room, the chatter dying down as they bowed in the presence of the heir of Vegetasei, who glowered at them, one by one.

He wouldn't let any of them forget that one couldn't cross the Prince of all Saiyans and live.

* * *

The cook scooped mashed...whatever...from an enormous pan and flung it onto Bulma's plate. She grimaced as it made an unappetizing plop when it struck her cheap plastic plate. The line shuffled forward, and Bulma slid her plate down the metal counter and waited for the men in front of her to have their thumbprints scanned before straggling to their assigned seats in the cafeteria. Finally, it was Bulma's turn, and she held her hand out to the laser, which beeped shrilly, alerting everyone know that she passed inspection. She turned from the cramped line and headed out the door to the large cafeteria, the scouter bumping against her thigh, when suddenly she collided with a wall of muscle. Jerking back to save her food before her only meal toppled to the ground, she looked upwards into the face of the jerk who had been loitering outside the doorway...only to swallow with fear.

A burly, bald Saiyan sneered down at her, and to her increasing horror, a few of his friends joined him at her side.

"Well, well, well." The Saiyan placed his fists on his terrifyingly large hips. "You weren't watching where you were going, little Earthling. Did you see something you wanted, but didn't know how to ask?"

Bulma grew pale as the other Saiyans leered at her over his shoulder.

"Go ahead and take a moment to get on your knees and beg us for mercy," he crowed, "since you were so intent on disrespecting Saiyan warriors."

"No, no, I-"

The already unnatural quiet of the cafeteria had thickened into palpable silence. A terrifying understanding dawned on her.

No one was going to help her. No one would protest as they hauled her off, kicking and screaming. She was just an alien, chattel, a woman, and everyone was out for themselves, to oblige their masters...

One of the Saiyans knocked her tray from her grip, and they all laughed.

"I haven't even gotten to eat yet," one of them complained.

"We'll dine on Earthling tonight."

The Saiyans erupted with laughter, and as if their jeering wasn't humiliating enough, one of them grabbed her hair, shaking her. Her scalp blazed with pain, her eyes watering, her field of vision compromised by the mocking faces of Saiyans jerking to and fro.

One of them pressed up behind her, his belt buckle digging into the back of her head, and he grabbed her ass through her lab coat, just inches away from the scouter, sending her spiraling further into panic.

"We'll teach you to mess with a Saiyan's pride," one of them said, and her field of vision narrowed, a piercing deafness making it seem as if it were a chorus of them promising her death. It was an end she had had many nightmares about and yet had expected, but not like this, not in the middle of a cafeteria that smelled like sour milk and despair, with hundreds watching, not one of them brave enough or compassionate enough to interject.

"No," she heard herself say distantly.

They were still laughing. They didn't hear her, didn't want to hear her. Just use her.

"No" she said again, more firmly. "Over my dead body!"

She wanted to throw her hand over her mouth to stop the rage from spewing that would most definitely seal her fate, but she was past alarm and into the realm of frenzy.

"There's no pride in bullying a person who can't fight back-"

One of the Saiyans slapped her across the mouth, and she fell back, catching herself painfully with her arm, jarring her, before clutching her jaw, which was already swelling. She tasted a smear of blood at her lip.

She was terrified and out of control, driven to an extreme she had been floating outside of for years. She didn't even recognize herself, as if she were on Earth again, watching someone else's drama unfold on the tv.

"I'm not afraid of you," she babbled, her voice raw with emotion. "There's nothing to admire 'bouta couple of bullies trying to prove something to people they're keeping in chains-"

The leader's face had fallen as she spoke and then screwed up until his green aura burst around him, settling in his hand.

"Shut up, Earthling bitch!"

Bulma's eyes glittered in the emerald light of his ki, her mouth parting, to protest or plead for her life, she didn't know, and the light blazed around her, encapsulating her. Right before it was suddenly extinguished.

She blinked as her eyes adjusted, brows furrowing slightly.

"She is right."

A deep, grainy voice echoed through the cafeteria and rolled right through her, traveling up her spine and settling at her neck. She shivered.

Bulma looked towards the sound of the voice. A few feet away, he stood, gold tipped, pearly white boots which traveled up his thick calves, and upwards, his defined thighs...his tail curled around his waist, a slim white chest plate over his black suit, the Royal Saiyan Crest spread over his broad chest in red. His cape hung to his knees, affixed to its shoulders with gold pins. He was a vision of black, red and gold against the clinical lighting of the cafeteria.

To her bafflement, the Saiyans dropped to their knees and bowed their heads almost apologetically, and that's when Bulma noticed everyone else had already sunk to their knees in obeisance.

Bulma was already on her knees; all she could do was stare upwards at the Royal, licking the blood gathering at the corner of her lip.

"You are not Saiyans," the resonant voice continued. "A Saiyan first and foremost has pride, and I do not see any in the Saiyans in front of me."

"Your highness!" One of them cried out, earning a smack across the back of the head from his peer. He continued on recklessly. "We were trying to teach the wench a lesson in respect-"

"A real warrior does not need to flaunt his power to the weak. A Saiyan worthy of his salt seeks challenges from the most powerful. You've made yourself fools in front of an audience, and allowed a weakling to prove herself more Saiyan than you. I do not tolerate fools in my Army," he finished dangerously.

"My Lord, I'm sorry-" they began babbling, and the Royal cut them off with a swipe of his hand.

"You bring dishonor to yourselves. Do you defy me?" He snarled.

The men began shaking their hands frantically.

"I don't tolerate fools in my Army," the man reiterated, holding up two fingers, which lit with a mesmerizing blue fire, "but I especially do not tolerate fools."

Before she could blink, a flash of white hot light seared out from his fingers, and the heat of its proximity warmed her face as it decapitated the Saiyans cleanly. Sickeningly, their heads toppled off the stump of their necks almost comically, bloodless and cauterized. Bulma held back rising bile.

"You shall not tolerate it either." His voice rang out to the inhabitants of the cafeteria, shocking her from her daze as she stared in horror at the pile of limbs just a few feet away from her. The head of the Saiyan who had gripped her hair had swiveled in her direction, its lifeless, frightened eyes staring pleadingly in her direction.

For an instant, the man's eyes locked onto hers, and time stood still as his penetrative eyes regarded her. Against his bronze skin and jet black hair stood the gold braid fringe at his shoulder, denoting his royal and military status.

Bulma caught her breath.

The Prince of Saiyans.

His gaze dipped down and lingered on the drop of blood at her lip before he turned, breaking the moment between them.

Just as soon as he moved, he was gone, and Bulma kneeled on the cold cafeteria floor, a pile of recently expired Saiyans to her right, her now cold, mashed...something...smeared across the floor to her left.

It was just her luck.

* * *

When she stepped into her office -her stomach grumbling with hunger, since her lunch had been splattered all over the cafeteria floor- her coworkers glanced at her uneasily, milling about and whispering to themselves. Uncertainly, she made her way to her cubicle, before being intercepted by her boss.

He gripped her arm and shook his head. "42019, we're having a visitor. A very important one. He's stopping by and wants to see the work on the Aisllee Project. Get prepared."

"Of course, sir," she murmured, and continued to her desk as he turned away, alerting other scientists to their visitor. Rifling through her file folder, rifling through the documents on the project and inspecting them, before joining the others standing at attention by the wall.

It wasn't routine for a patron to visit the Science Wing. Bulma wondered what made this patron and the Aisllee project so important that one would be interested in personally inquiring on it. Bulma worried the scouter in her pocket, irritated with the shake down. She had more important things to do -finishing the blueprints and prototype for ChiChi, for instance- then stand here shaking in her boots like the others, waiting for some overgrown ape to grill her about a project that was far beyond his cognition. Her brows dipped into a little frown and she stared emptily at the wall, willing the day to be over.

As the last of the scientists joined rank, the door opened to the Wing, and a dozen Royal guards streamed in, setting up post around the office.

Bulma tried not to roll her eyes at them, when she once again came face to face with the Prince of Vegetasei, striding in behind the last Royal guard.

At first, he stared at the wall of scientists unseeing, his face a mask of indifference. Then his eyes met hers. She saw his nostrils flare, like a dog who had caught her scent, recognition clear on his face.

Bulma's heart stopped before exploding into a pitter patter of panic. Him. The Prince. He was the patron?! His scarlet cape swirled around his calves as he proceeded towards the line of scientists, the gold links and the Saiyan Royal insignia across his chest the same markings that had flashed in her vision as he flew away, that bittersweet night she had hacked the Military Wing. Was he...was he here for her? Did he know?

Her boss was explaining the project to the Prince now, clearly bootlicking, but Bulma didn't hear a word he was saying. Her adrenaline was causing her to tremble. Her boss was calling scientists out of the row one by one to give their accounts of the project, and Bulma turned her head towards the far wall to distract herself from hysteria.

The minutes passed, and he still hadn't blasted her. In fact, from her occasional, concerned glances his way, he looked quite bored and impatient, glaring at each scientist and only interacting with them by nodding curtly after they gave their reports.

Finally, her boss called her number, and Bulma took halting steps towards the Prince, feeling entirely self conscious of her gait, as though every movement was grounds to blow her into bits. She remembered the Saiyans dismembered bodies, the smell of singed hair and flesh. Her stomach rolled, and she thought she might puke. A small part of her hoped she would, just to get out of speaking to the Prince.

She finally stood in front of the Prince awkwardly, his eyes shifting from her coworker to her as her coworker departed. His cold eyes searched hers before settling, once again, on her busted lip.

Her boss was speaking. The Prince, up close, had stupidly handsome features for being so scary. His face was broad, his features angular, his nose sharply defined and aristocratic without being unappealing. His suit fit tightly over his built physique, and yet he wasn't overly bulky. In fact, he was quite cut. His tail was curled tightly around his waist, the downy hair glinting auburn in the fluorescent light, and Bulma could clearly see the muscles of his hips move as he shifted.

"42019," her boss snapped, and she looked up at him, with the feeling that wasn't the first time he had called her identifier. "Prince Vegeta would like to hear about your work with the Aisllee."

She cleared her throat, her eyes flicking back and forth between them. "Yes, of course." She cleared her throat again. "My position with the Aisllee has been, um, twofold-unpacking all the code encrypted in the ship's drive, which was damaged when it crash landed, but also scrutinizing and refining the Cold technology within it..."

Her voice drifted to a stop. The Prince was giving her an odd look that was quickly becoming angry.

"Go on," her boss snapped, and she spent less than a second wondering how he would make her pay for stuttering in front of the Prince before the Prince had a hold of her arm, his gloved grip almost painful as he drew her towards him.

He looked down into her eyes with deadly intent.

She couldn't help it.

She giggled nervously.

"I want to speak with this one in private," he demanded.

"Oh. Yes, of course," her boss sputtered. "There's an empty office over there-"

The Royal spun her around and marched her toward the room, pushing her in front of him at the small of her back before slamming the door shut.

His eyes never left hers, and boy, did he look furious.

"You're the little spy I made a deal with," he hissed, pinning her to the wall by her shoulder.

"What?" She squeaked. "Nooo, not me. There must be someone else you've mistaken me for-"

"I'd recognize that scent and those blue eyes anywhere," he snarled. "Your whining only confirmed it. Imagine my surprise once I found out you were a scientist. You're lucky I didn't scent you in the cafeteria earlier. I would have definitely just killed you." The pressure increased at her shoulder, and she bit her lip to distract herself from the pain. "But I'm lucky I didn't. Now I can talk to you...alone." His lips dragged upwards slightly.

"Did they plant you here?" He issued roughly.

"Who?" She asked thinly.

"First Strike!" He snapped.

"No!" Her face flushed with anger, sweeping away any fear she had for the overbearing Prince. "I told you, I had nothing to do with them until recently. Your Army invaded my planet eight years ago, kidnapped me and forced me to push papers on your Kami-awful planet! I wouldn't be here even if you offered me all the riches in the universe!"

He glared at her murderously. "Are you reporting back to them on the project?"

"What? No. In fact, the only contact I've had with them since that night has been to hack their files. They haven't exactly kept their end of the deal," she admitted softly.

The Saiyan Prince barked with laughter. "Well, now, isn't that cute!"

Before she knew it, her palm was slapping against the Saiyan's smooth cheek, and for just an instant, she savored his surprised expression before being drove back into the wall hard enough to daze her.

"You have crossed the line, slave-"

They both heard the doorknob jiggle, and, to her utter surprise, a look of concern passed over the Prince's face before his eyes met hers and his hand released her neck, sliding upwards to cup her face with unforeseen gentleness.

And then he kissed her.

She was too shocked to respond. The Prince's lips were soft, and his whole body seeped warmth. Distantly, she heard the door open, and the Prince's tongue dove into her mouth, pressing against hers energetically. His thumb moved over the apple of her cheek and his body pressed fractionally into hers. He smelled like sun and a deeper musk, an undercurrent of unknown spice. His mouth was hot and surprisingly delicious. Her eyelids fluttered closed, but not before seeing him watch her under hooded lids, his eyelashes a full, rich ebony.

Carefully, without understanding the need for it, she pressed her own tongue against his and matched his rhythm.

Someone cleared their throat, and his kissing casually slowed to a stop, before he pulled away leisurely, gazing at her intensely before glancing to the door.

"Yes?" His voice rumbled in his chest against her, and she found herself mindlessly leaning in to it.

"Forgive me, your highness, I heard the sounds of an altercation-"

"Leave a woman and man to their own," the Prince ordered. Her jaw dropped.

"Yes, sir," the guard replied before shutting the door behind him.

The Prince sighed, his warm breath hitting her in the face, and she breathed it in.

"It is not customary for the heir to speak one on one with someone below their rank. There would be suspicion I must absolutely avoid should I be caught speaking to a scientist privately. I had to make it look like I was interested in only one thing from you," he explained, almost...bashfully.

"Then why did you pull me in here?" She asked, flabbergasted.

"Because I lost my temper," he growled.

"I can't tell if you're a man who does or doesn't know how to control his temper," she mused, smiling fractionally.

She didn't know what she was doing, talking to the Prince like this. Frankly she hadn't spoken to anyone on Vegetasei this much until the last year, when little Gohan arrived.

"I am a man that loses his temper but is not usually impulsive," he warned testily. "I am not to be fucked with. Which is why we will meet tonight as planned, and you will tell me just what you meant when you said you found Cold parts on a Saiyan vessel, and about what you've found out from First Strike. Are we clear?" He hadn't pulled away yet, using his proximity to her as intimidation.

Impulsively -idiotically- her eyes narrowed at his tone. "Yes, master."

His eyes narrowed at her in return.

"You are so very, very lucky that you are worth more to me than anyone else on this Kami-awful planet at the moment." He stepped away and headed towards the door.

"Wait! What should I tell them you wanted of me? My boss will want to know what you inquired after so he can better kiss your ass..."

"Nothing," he replied matter-of-factly. "Just tell them I was good-and well endowed!" He barked with laughter as he yanked the door open, but looked over his shoulder at her gravely. "Change of plans. This could work out well for me. Meet me at my quarters tonight instead."

"What?!" She shrieked, but the door was closing between them.

"Prick," she hissed, crossing her arms over her chest, before sliding her fingers over her lips curiously.


	3. Chapter 3

Bulma put one foot in front of the other, making her way down the main hall, glancing at her radar discreetly and trying to stay out of the way of the bustling servants. The Royal Wing was just past the double doors that loomed a few hundred feet in front of her, and her radar was telling her that ki's lined the hallway beyond. Royal Guards. She gulped.

He wanted her to just...walk through the enormous, busy palace like she did it every day!...And sashay down the hall like, like some...some _lady of the night_? Her heart was thumping inside her chest, her mouth was dry, her hands were clammy. Would the guards kill her on the spot? Damnet, she had had enough of this feeling for one day!

The day had been impossibly long and draining; she was tired and hungry. She just wanted this over with so she could go home and help Gohan with his homework, indulging in her few, simple pleasures, before falling asleep.

The crowd began to clear the last dozen feet. Worrying her lip, she approached the guards at the door, who stood rigidly against the wall staring at her.

"State your business."

"I'm here to see the Prince?" She answered meekly. Would they believe her? All she wore were her scrubs under her lab coat, her shoulder length hair tied loosely at the nape of her neck. There was no convincing anyone she was her for...carnal pleasures. She hoped he knew what he was doing.

"04192?"

She nodded weakly.

One of the guards opened the door for her. "You are expected."

She shuffled nervously between them and across the threshold. The door shut behind her heavily, startling her, and she glanced back and saw that one of the guards followed just a few steps behind her. He remained silent, watchful.

Acknowledging the escort with a sigh, she again put one foot in front of the other and made her way down the wide hall. It was dimly lit, the weight of the darkness and the oppressive quiet disarming. The hall was long, with no door in sight. The floor gleamed white alabaster, with bolts of red and black, her loafers slapping against it softly. Along the walls were murals, depicting giant apes howling at the moon, beating their breasts, traveling in hordes over a rocky, desert landscape. Lots of portraits of _Oozaru_ battling among trees dripping with vines. Where were the forests on Vegetasei in which the Oozaru learned to climb and developed thumbs and tails? She considered the wonder of the shapeshifting Saiyans, whose ape forms were no longer bipedal, with a scientist's thoughtfulness.

The style of the frescoes seemed outdated, and she wondered if maintaining the art and their history was why the hallways were so poorly lit. Bulma quickly dashed the thought away. It was impossible for a Saiyan to care about anything other than a fight.

The guard surpassed her and came to a halt, and she came up short trying not to bump into the colossal warrior's behind. He rapped on the black wood door, which swiftly swung open, revealing the bored Saiyan Prince sans cape and armor.

"Oh, good. The woman's here. Well? Are you going to stand there staring at me or are you going to get undressed?"

Bulma's jaw dropped, but the Prince grabbed her by her shirt front and dragged her in before she could holler at him, slamming the door on the guard's face.

He left her there in the doorway, walking over to his desk where he hovered over some papers, as though they had occupied him before she had interrupted him.

She pointed her finger at him stiffly, seething, unable to form the words she needed to. He glanced her way. "These are the files on the Aisllee project. Why don't any of them mention Cold parts?"

She growled, strangling with emotion, feeling very much like a steaming kettle. Would this day ever stop challenging her dignity?

"Offworlder," he snapped, glaring. "Grow up. I have no intention of bedding you. Now come over here and do your damn job before I make you regret it." Seeing that she was a step away from exploding, he stared at her impatiently before smirking. "Are you upset that I have no desire to bed you?"

Bulma's rage stuttered to a stop. Mortified, she blushed. "Can we just get this over with?"

"Let's get to business."

He turned and faced her fully now. In his room, without his royal armor, he was no less intimidating. In fact, he seemed even more obviously predatory. Without his symbols of power, his concealing cape, the chest plate with the wide shoulders, it was evident now how much he moved like a hunter. He stood at the desk, glaring at the papers, clearly in a mood, and she unconsciously moved closer to him with curiosity. He didn't seem like he was accustomed to paperwork, staring at the papers like something in need of being slain.

"What are these?" She asked politely, gesturing at the papers spread out over the beautifully rendered, dark wood desk.

He growled a little. "These are the reports given to me on the Aisllee project. One set from my father's advisors, one set from your supervisor. Both contradicting the other." His head whipped toward hers. "Someone is hiding something from me. You said you saw Cold Parts on the fuselage? Explain yourself."

"Well, okay," she began, inching towards him to glance at the papers. He let her do so, although tensely. "Until now, this project has been pretty uninteresting. No one has mentioned anything controversial about it. We were given the Aisllee remnants to identify why the ship had broken up in orbit, which my supervisor explained to you. I was given the task of modulating the wreckage, like I told you. Nothing really challenging about it." She complained. "While I was inspecting the wreckage, I noticed there were quite a few parts that were manufactured by the Cold Empire. Including the black box." Her voice softened as she noticed his face darken. "I thought nothing of it. I assumed there might be some economic agreement between you, although even I know your empire's are not on the best of terms..."

His face tightened.

"May I?" She pointed to the papers.

He nodded curtly.

She rifled though them, until she found the blueprints.

"Do you see this?" She asked softly. He nodded once. "This is the ship's source of propulsion. They were using keranite, because there was residue all over the engines."

He frowned, confused.

"I'm sorry, I don't know much about Saiyan exports, but I've heard that keranite is embargoed. It's extracted from Cold territories, and that's it. No Saiyan should have access to it," she continued, apologetically. "Not only that, but we can assume they hadn't been stranded and forced to use it, if we were to explore other reasons the ship would be outfitted with Cold parts. Saiyan ships can't tolerate it, it doesn't properly explode in the cylinders, the ship just won't move with it. Which means the ship was deliberately outfitted with it."

"These men were on a simple purging mission, coordinates clearly mapped, in safe territory, with no problems on the record," Vegeta countered angrily.

"Someone on the inside of your cabinet has made a deal with the Cold Empire," she breathed, putting everything together. "Am I getting closer to why you've brought me here?"

He set his cold black eyes on her.

He still didn't trust her.

"Explain to me how involved you are in First Strike."

"How do you know I'll be telling the truth?" She mused, lips turning upwards.

"It's quite obvious to me you have no idea what you're doing," he replied flatly. "I have no fear that with a little persuasion you will tell me what I want to know."

Her eyes widened.

He waited for her to quake, but instead, her heart shaped face turned stormy. "What is so unbelievable about me that you think I don't pose a threat?" She crossed her arms over her chest. "I seem to recall surprising you with a thousand volts of electricity not more than a week ago."

"And that proved real successful."

"I wasn't expecting to run into the _Saiyan Prince_!"

A self satisfied smile tugged at his lips. "You got lucky."

She growled.

"I pulled your file." He told her abruptly.

"You arrived here eight years ago aboard a shipping vessel directly from Earth with 4,000 others, many who've taken up service positions around the quadrant. You've been relegated to the Science Wing as an O-4 Operator and Maintainer ever since. The fact that you've remained while others have...disappeared...is noteworthy. Why make a deal with First Strike, when you've done so well..._Unless_ you're a plant?"

He watched her expressive face transform again as she scowled at him deeply, regarding him with contempt. "Have you no concept of freedom? Are you really so removed from the life of your Empire's laborers that you can't understand why someone would want to leave the drudgery of enslavement and the whims of those who murdered their family?"

His face darkened. "Pathetic. You are not the only one who has to be somewhere and do something they don't want to."

"You live in splendor," she hissed, "while the rest of us break our backs to keep this Empire alive. It is _not_ the same thing."

He leaned in, chest heaving. "Do you have a death wish? Do not presume I will endure your smart mouth simply because I am using you as an informant. I don't need you anymore than I need a headache."

His breath hit her in the face, and she clenched her jaw before poking him in the chest, earning a scary rumbling.

"Now who is challenging someone beneath them?"

To her surprise, his face fell, and he took a step backwards.

Before she could gloat or reason out his reaction, there was a knock on the door.

"Get on the bed," he snapped at her, and made his way leisurely across the room to open the door. Bulma moved to sit with crossed legs on his bed and watched a servant bow deeply in the doorway, before wheeling in a tray. The aroma of food hit her, and she tried ignoring the pang in her belly.

"Get out," the Prince snapped at the servant, and the servant slinked out of the room.

The Prince picked up the covers of the silver trays, eyeing the food, before his eyes flicked over at her. "I tell you to get on the bed so that you can look well ravished," he drawled, before placing the plates on his desk, "and you're sitting over there like you're ready to take an exam. Now tell me. What have you learned from First Strike?"

The succulent aroma of steak was causing her mouth to water, and her eyes roamed over the small feast in front of him with intensity. "Hm?" She glanced back and he caught her licking her lips.

His eyes narrowed. "Get your eyes off my food."

Her eyes widened at his defensiveness. "I wouldn't be so hungry had my lunch not been smeared across the floor by some Saiyan brute!"

"Yeah, well, you can go fill your big mouth once we're done here, because the Prince of Saiyans does _not_ share with commoners."

She didn't know whether to be furious or humiliated. "I don't get an evening meal. It's proscribed."

His brows dipped in confusion as he pulled a piece of steak off his fork with his teeth. She quickly decided she liked the way he looked when he was puzzling something out; it was a cross between a cute vulnerability and a marked interest in solving a puzzle. "What do you mean?" His slight, royal accent laced his words almost imperceptibly.

"I mean, I won't be be eating anything until tomorrow afternoon. We're allowed only one meal a day, at lunch chow." She turned away, embarrassed, and her hands fluttered in the air, shooing the topic away.

"I'm not a First Strike spy. I'm just a woman held against her will looking to live in safety, freely, and First Strike made me a deal. There's really no more to it than that. And you should believe me. The only people I've talked to since I arrived her besides First Strike and my superiors are the Son family, and one of them is confined in my room and the others are in the realm of the Heaven with the Kai's preparing for a war. They don't have time to chat," she sighed.

It was like someone flicked a light switch on them at the same time. Their eyes met; Bulma's eyes widened and she threw her hand over her mouth. Vegeta's eyes became predatory as they zeroed in on her.

"What did you say?" He crooned.

She instinctively backed up, her oxfords finding purchase on the full red carpet as she stumbled from his study area onto his bed, the backs of her knees hitting the chest at the foot.

The Prince seethed down at her, his gloved fists balled at his waist. She had no idea she could be so scared. Enduring the Prince's wrath was confronting death, like uncontrollably losing purchase at the edge of an abyss.

"What are you hiding?" He bellowed.

"Heh heh," Bulma tittered, as she realized her shoulders were pressed against his massive headboard and there was nowhere else to go. "You misunderstood me. Who _knows_ what I was talking about. _I _don't know what I was talking about! It's nothing, really!"

"Shut up," he hollered, "and tell me."

"You can't have it both ways!" She yelled stupidly.

Suddenly the Princes ki burst around him, a thick sapphire vortex, the violent energy ruffling his spiky locks, causing them to twitch and sway.

"You have one second to tell me before you're stardust."

"My best friend Goku is a Super Saiyan and he's going to come to Vegetasei to kick some Elite ass!" She shrieked, her own hair whipping around her as she grit her teeth at the hurricane of dark energy ripping throughout the room.

"What?" The Prince cried incredulously, his ki swiftly diminishing.

He gave her an utterly baffled face, before growing a slanted grin. "A _Super Saiyan_. There's only one Super Saiyan in this universe," he cajoled, chuckling, "and that's _me_."

"You can go Super Saiyan too?"

He glanced away, crossing his arms and sniffing. "I am the only one in the universe powerful enough to be the Legendary."

She gave him a sideways look. "Tell me, does the Legend tell of a blonde haired, green eyed Saiyan warrior with unprecedented strength?"

Vegeta just stared at her with simmering frustration.

"Yep, that sounds just like Goku."

"You're telling me there's another Saiyan out there who can go Super Saiyan?" He asked belligerently. "Where is he? Why don't I know about him? What kind of game are you playing?" He hoisted her by the shirt, shaking her against the pillows, pinning her there with his weight. "Tell me everything and I _might_ make your death a little cleaner."

How many times was she going to do this today?

The energy around him grew more violent, and he held up his hand, dazzling bright with an energy beyond her comprehension. Death followed the Prince like a shadow, and all she knew is she didn't think it was fair for her to go like this.

She grabbed his fist with both hands, the hand that held her life or death. She looked up into his face pleadingly. "Give me a minute to explain."

The Prince regarded her with wary surprise. She waited for his response with anguished eyes.

His ki finally died down, until their fighting faces were lit only by lamp light.

"I want you to promise me you won't hurt us once I tell you. I want you to promise me safe passage," she was surprised to hear herself say.

"How dare you make demands to me after I spare your life," the Prince wondered bellicosely.

"I'm not asking for much," she explained. "We have no home waiting for us should our plans even work, just a planet that's been mostly cleared of life. All we'd really have is the right to refuse to play slave for the institution that destroyed our planet and our families. I don't really have a choice but to help you," she implored. "I _have_ to give the Saiyan Prince an ultimatum. You don't get anything from me otherwise. And your Empire hinges on it," she finished, trying her best to sound threatening.

He had bared his teeth at her by this point, his eyeteeth gleaming in the soft light. "You are insane," he grit.

She was still gripping his fisted hand. "I will tell you everything I know, and you can have your Empire, and you can have your war, and I won't bother you anymore. It's a win-win."

"Your planet is gone. It's been blown to bits by the Colds over a territory dispute. You have nowhere else to go."

Her face turned ashy.

He had hoped to relish her horror at the news, to regain his control by exploiting her emotions, but instead, he felt...a little guilty.

"It's...completely gone?"

All he could do was gaze at her.

She whipped her head to the side to hide her flickering emotions. In a thick voice, she continued the negotiation. "Just send me somewhere safe. Somewhere nice to look at. I just want to not be bothered anymore." She turned back to him, face set, eyes watery. She dropped her grip on his hand, which he felt fleeting disappointment about.

He stood, stepping backward, giving them space. She stood, smoothing her hair and adjusting her lab coat. He watched her cross her arms over her chest a little wearily, looking worn and washed out in the gray scrubs of her work attire. Her hair had mostly come loose from the tie in their struggle. She stood straight, awaiting his response without much hope from under tired lids.

Finally, he agreed. "You will tell me everything. And the duration of your stay on Vegetasei, you will stay here, in my room, so you cannot inform anyone."

"What?! You're just going to lock me up here?"

"You will not exist anymore. You will be gone. Erased. Dead, to everyone else. You will give me all the information you know, and more, if I request it." She endured the onslaught, grimacing. "You will be quarantined in here until I confirm everything you say and this war has been taken care of. If you're found to be honest once I take care of this problem, you will have earned your freedom. I will promise you safe passage to wherever. If you are deceiving me, well," he gave her a sinful smile, "I will punish you. Saiyan style...Public torture..."

He watched her face.

"Okay," she whispered.

"Either way, I win." He promised sinisterly.

No longer have to go into work? That can't be so bad, she tried telling herself.

She nodded. "But we have to get Gohan."

"Gohan?" He pronounced the word uncertainly.

"Yes. Goku's son. He lives with me while Goku trains with the Kai's."

The Prince looked contemplative. "His son is Saiyan? Is he a rebel?"

"Goku grew up with me on Earth. He's married to ChiChi, who is from Earth like I am. Gohan is half Saiyan, and no, they are not rebels."

"Then let's get this over with. Do you have your toy?"

"My toy?" She asked confused.

"The one that let you sneak around my palace."

"Yes. But, how about this?" She pulled something tentatively from her lab coat, holding it out to him, the eyepiece with the green lens which she had created for Goku so that he would have some tablet for sensing the ki's around him.

She flicked it open and set it over her eye, holding the piece steady as it scrolled through a wealth of information about the outside world before finding its target, narrowing on the prince and prompting her with a number.

"Oh. Wow." She looked at him with wide eyes, one obscured by opaque plastic. "No wonder I couldn't detect you in the hand held scouter." He was frowning at her, and she plucked it off her face and handed it to him. "It detects power levels. My other radar was disadvantaged because it couldn't detect strong ki's. Difference in materials, I suppose. This one will read any ki." His hand closed around it, and he peered at it suspiciously before fitting it over face. She reached up and reset it, fingers brushing his face, then stepping away so he could get a good read on her, his cheek still tingling from their contact. She heard the minute beep which meant she had been targeted, and he smirked. "Just as I thought," his dark eyes lit up with playful warmth. "Pathetic."

She smirked back at him. "Yeah, well, no one said you had to be strong to have the advantage. You can be smart, too." She winked at him.

He focused as the scouter registered dozens of ki's, including the guards outside, and many more. "What are its proximate limits?"

"Half a mile. That's as good as I can do. I am stealing this stuff from leftover parts in the tool room, ya know."

He handed it back to her, giving her a patronizing glare."And you are building this tech why? You said yourself you're not a fighter."

"For Goku. He...has plans to come here. To take care of some business."

The Prince looked at her with deadly intent. "If he is coming to kill me, he won't leave alive."

Bulma shook his head, looking at him tentatively. "He...has plans to restore balance to the universe. First the Saiyan Elites...and then the Colds."

She squirmed under his consideration.

"Why the Elites?" He asked slowly.

"I don't think you'd understand." She crisply replied.

"Try me," he growled.

"Let me explain it to you like you're five, then," she snapped. "Because they're _bad_. Because they destroy people's lives, their homes, their planets, and they enslave and kill them. It's genocide on a massive scale, this competition between the Saiyans and the Colds for _expansion_ and _profit_, and no one is brave enough to tell you...them...to stop. Well, now there is."

"Have you heard the Legend?" He asked her briskly. He stepped closer to her. "Do you know why the Gods created the Super Saiyan, the Saiyan with enormous recesses of power? Because- -he is the adjudicate. He crops up every thousand years from between Heaven and Hell to restore balance to a people who were given _over_ their fair share of everyday strength. He reaps what others have sewn," he told her closely, "and he measures your worth by that which you have already harvested. He is prescient, sent to remind Saiyans that Otherness exists inside them. He is the Reaper of Saiyans, and he is the Purger from Purgatory. Do you see now?" He grabbed her chin, staring into her eyes with a taut face and stormy eyes. "Your friend may be a Super Saiyan, but _I_ am the Legendary. _I_ will purge those rancid Elites and wretched advisors from this realm. _I_ will remake the rules. I will take back my kingdom, not some intergalactic peacekeepers. _Me_."

They stared at each other, inches away from the other, unblinking. "I want them gone. And you're going to help me do it. Do you understand now? _My_ way."

"I won't do anything that jeopardizes my friend's lives," she resisted, her head held still in his hand.

"You have strength and smarts that is absent from many of my people," he mused. "Would that they were more like you."

Her eyes widened.

"Just less puny, and with absolutely none of your ridiculous coloring," he sniffed, releasing her.

Her eyes narrowed.

"I thought you were the Dark Prince. You're...you're chaos and destruction, embodied. Why would you want peace?"

He jerked the breast plate over his head, attaching his cape to the shoulder plates with military precision. "I didn't say I wanted peace." He smiled cruelly and strode back over to her. "I just want to remind my people of their responsibility to tradition."

"This is a power play," she commented. Somehow, she was disappointed.

"This is _not_ a game of power," he snarled, pushing open the paper door balcony, cool night air hitting them. "Because then, I would win hands down. This is a battle of _wits_. Put the scouter on. Is their anyone in our path?"

She fit it on, squinting into it. "Two over the walls, three in the garden."

Without warning, he hopped over the ledge, and she stifled a scream, throwing her arms round his neck tightly. He sprinted down the parapet, his footsteps soft, and then jumped to a balcony on the opposite side of the courtyard.

"One over there," Bulma warned him, pointing to the brush. The Prince sidled to the right, feet finding purchase on the shallow stones of the palace walls, his ki ever so lightly flaring to steady him, and hopped gracefully over a guard's head, landing them in a tree, to a smattering of cursing from Bulma.

"In front of you," she warned, the emerald screen alerting her, and he stood still against the tree trunk amid the thick foliage, them both holding their breath in the darkness while a guard passed. When she motioned they were all clear, he flew them in low to the Science Wing.

Outside, in the hedges, he put her down, and she worked to regain her balance.

"How many?" He asked.

"None," she answered, cracking open a power box on the wall and mashing buttons.

"What, there are no guards in the Science Wing?!"

"They turn off the power, so we're locked in there." The door slid open quietly, revealing a dark hall and stairs beyond. The moonlight from Vegetasei's two moons stretched toward the staircase before stalling. Vegetasei boasted three moons total, but its third moon appeared only once every eighty years, accompanied by just the right Blutz waves to turn them all into living terrors. At the foot of the stairs, she turned suddenly to the Prince.

"Tell me," she confronted him in the darkness and shadows. "When the Elites have been expunged, will you still be treating off worlders like dirt?" She proceeded down the stairs in front of him, glancing behind her.

He narrowed his eyes at her. "It's not my fault you were to weak to resist us. The strong survive, while the weak-"

"Spare me your social Darwinisms." Her face hardened as they descended in near total darkness. "Just because you're physically able to out power us does not mean you have the right to."

"Like hell it doesn't," he snarled, only a step behind her.

"Oh really?" She mused. "Then because I am smarter than you, does that mean I should just leave you here in the dark in a strange place, because I can, hm?"

"You are not smarter than me," he grit out, a hair's breadth away from spitting.

She grabbed his wrist, pulling him into a doorway, popping open a box of wires.

"You're awfully cute when you get defensive."

A door popped open, leaving the Prince stuttering and blushing before he was dragged inside. The lights flicked on, and Gohan stood in his sweats, holding a ball of ki uncertainly.

"It's just me," Bulma assured him, smiling.

Gohan glanced at the dangerous looking Saiyan at her side.

"Oh. Of course! Gohan, this is...the Prince. Of Saiyans." She looked between them. "He's safe." Her mouth drew into a little frown as she doubted for a moment whether to classify him as 'safe.'

"Offworlder, are you insane? Safe is the last word I would use to describe me," he snarled.

"Yeah, well, I guess you're right. How about benign? Like an annoying tumor that hasn't been surgically excised yet?" She smiled sweetly.

The Prince glowered at her, and Gohan glanced uncomfortably between them.

"Hu-hullo," he finally greeted, bowing, diffusing the tension briefly.

Bulma watched him proudly. She was going to have to mention to ChiChi that her prodigal son hadn't forgotten his manners around royalty.

"Prince..." She blinked, and then turned to him expectantly.

He looked sideways. "Vegeta," he grumped.

"Prince Vegeta, this is Gohan. Goku's son. And I am…well, you know who I am. 04192." She cleared her throat.

He looked at her with one elegantly raised eyebrow. "Don't you have another name...One that isn't such a mouthful?"

"Bulma," she said unfamiliarly, frowning. "My real name is Bulma."

"Bulma," he said, without meaning to.

She nodded, and then glanced around the small room with disappointment. "Well, this is where we live." They had stepped out of the narrow doorway and into the living room, which held a couch with a crisply folded blanket and pillow, a small table with two chairs, and a pile of tech parts. The kitchen was just a bit further in, in the far corner of the living room. It was small, with an arms width of counter space, one stove coil and a narrow sink. Altogether, the room was about ten feet long. To the right was a bedroom, holding a messy, unmade bed and a small desk with a computer, with no room in between. One had to climb over the bed to get out the door, or sit on the bed to use the computer.

"They shut down our power at night to seal us in to prevent us from...I don't know what, mayhem?...but I have it rigged so that we have our own power generator." She gave him a small smile, which deflated quickly. "We don't really have anything to bring with us, except our clothes and our computer."

"Where are we going?" Gohan asked with concern.

"The Prince will be...keeping us, until your Father arrives. That way we can stay safe." She was lying through her teeth.

Gohan looked at her uncertainly. "I'm not sure my mother would agree to that," he informed her, not rudely. _Kami bless his heart_, Bulma lamented. _He is still so good in a world of bad._

"I know, sweetheart, but I don't think we really have a choice." The two shared a look.

At her concerned but firm insistence, he nodded. "We will have to tell her soon, then."

The apartment smelled stale, like a basement, and the only thing the dim lamp revealed was the dull linoleum and threadbare furniture. She wondered if the Prince had ever been somewhere so dingy and small. He looked very out of place, although he was holding himself gracefully enough.

"Grab it and let's go," the Prince demanded, his voice roughened with suppressed admiration.

* * *

The Prince refused to fly them back to his room. He demanded that the two Earthlings walk but insisted that they would be safe. Sure enough, they ran into no trouble sneaking around uncertainly in the dark, the computer in Gohan's arms and their clothes clutched to her chest like they were a couple of looters with poor taste. Honestly, Bulma was a little relieved to leave the hole she had had to call home for the last decade. Perhaps it was just because she was so tired. The day had been so long, and she was feeling numb and silly, as evidenced by the stupid way she kept finding herself smiling at the Prince's back.

Once they stood below his balcony, Gohan flew up and over the balcony and landed lightly, turning towards Bulma. As she was piecing together just how she would climb up there and whether or not she should yell at Gohan to put the damned computer down and help her, the Prince had grabbed her at the waist and leapt up. She clutched the clothes to her chest and squealed. He let her go carelessly once their feet touched ground and he strode into the room, opening a set of doors she hadn't noticed prior.

Gohan and Bulma peeked inside. It was an expansive sitting room, endless wood flooring and furniture, gold fixtures and and high pile rugs, and murals of battling Oozaru. Bulma and Gohan stood still, mouths parted.

"Trying to catch flies?" The Prince drawled as he strode past them, turning on a lamp. "This is where you will remain until we can take care of our little problem."

"Why are you helping us?" Gohan interjected. "How do you know where not going to hurt you or something?"

"Look, kid," the Prince snarled, "you couldn't hurt me if you tried. I'm letting you stay here because, frankly, you are harmless. The both of you." He sent Bulma a look that had her sneering back at him. "Although I have my eye on _you_."

"That's more like it." She winked at him before placing their clothes on the sitting room night stand and resting her hands on her hips. "Get the computer set up and we'll call your Mom," she told Gohan.

"Do you have a bathroom?" She asked the Prince. To her delight, a blush grazed his cheeks slightly. He grumbled and stomped across the room, where he slammed open the door. Bulma walked past him, her side grazing his, and he clenched his teeth at the contact.

She took in the lavish large bathroom. "Wow," she breathed, looking over the gold and platinum fixtures, the marble toilet, the luxurious shower and claw footed tub. Suddenly, her heart was pounding, and she swallowed, before backing up into the Prince and looking at him with embarrassment. "I'm sorry," she breathed. "I can't-"

He reached out and snatched her arm as she went to escape, his own throat tightening with alarm.

"Can't what?" He growled, looking her over. "Where are you going? What are you hiding-"

"I'm sorry, it's just-" she wiped her palms on her hips, "it's just, I haven't been anywhere this...nice...for years. It's kind of unsettling." She smiled weakly and looked the other way.

His brows dipped into a deep frown, before their eyes met. They stood like that for a moment, before his eyes slid downward and away. "The towels are in the cabinet. The shower is touch activated."

He was still holding her arm. "Afterwards you may eat my leftovers." He her go reluctantly, not meeting her gaze.

"Thank you," she murmured. "I promise we won't be a bother."

"You better not, or I will throw you both out on your asses." He seeped menace, and yet, she had the feeling he was trying his best to be polite. She put a hand on his forearm, and he tensed, but didn't remove it. "Why are you doing this, really? I can't believe the Right Hand of Darkness would so easily take in a transplant and an orphan." Her lips tugged upwards.

Once again, he looked down at her lips, where she was bruised and swollen, a crack dried closed with blood.

She gazed at him with unwavering, deep blue eyes.

He moved in closer, until he was near enough to feel her breath on his face, and she tensed.

"Because," he breathed, peering down into her eyes, "have you ever wanted something so bad you could taste it?"

Her breath caught, and childishly, she nodded.

He came in even closer, his lips brushing against the side of her face, his smooth cheek grazing her own.

"I want to challenge and defeat your Super Saiyan."

His breath curled around her ear, and she shivered, before he left her there.


End file.
